SchAnora

At this point in my life, I do not give a tinker's tater tot over the many Belding bowls, One Show pencils, ANDY heads, and Certificates of Thank You for Donating a Submission Fee, that now occupy dusty space in my incredibly disheveled garage. 

In the same way,  I have no mental rental space in my brain for the players in the theatrical world and their Golden Globe awards, Emmy's, Tonys and Oscars. The yearly nominee lists merely serve as a cheat sheet for movies or shows I should probably know about or at least have seen.

With that in mind, I was naturally curious about Anora. 

It had won Best Picture of the Year. And the lead actress won Best Actress, though I was pulling for Demi Moore, whose children attended the same inordinately-expensive grammar school as mine.

Moreover, I had discovered that the movie was produced independently and for a ridiculously low price of $7 million. There are blockbuster Super Bowl commercials that cost as much to make -- I think. I swore I'd stay in my lane and never discuss the costs associated with production. Or post production. Or even post-post-production.

Given all that, and because I could rent the movie for 6 bucks, Ms. Muse and I got cozy, as cozy as one gets while still nursing an ornery surgical incision that measures 14 inches in length, and committed our eyeballs to this piece of bleeech. Netflix and De-Ill, if you will.

Spoiler Alert: I'm going to be revealing plot points, such as they are, in order to flesh out my review. If you haven't seen Anora and still plan to, you might want to stop here. Or you might want to take dictation at this point and thank me later for sparing you an insufferable 2 & 1/2 hours of cinemasturbation.

It begins with two materialistic, amoral young people in their early twenties who seem to have discovered sex for the very first time. She's a dancer, euphemism for "nimble prostitute" and he is ruble-encrusted spoon baby from the Motherland, a little boy so spoiled he makes DJTJ look like the paragon of good upbringing.

They fuck, they do drugs, they fuck, they do drugs, until it all spirals out of control and they find themselves getting married in Las Vegas.

I care so little about these two, that I wished they had crossed paths with some underworld ne'erdowells in Vegas who had some unfinished business with the buy's Hebraic oligarch parents who are pillars of the Russian mafioso. That could have been a movie.

Sadly that doesn't happen. But we do finally get to meet his obscenely wealthy parents who have built their many dachas on the pimping of drugs, the running of guns and the extortion of other Russian lowlifes, but cannot possibly fathom the shame this marrying hussy has brought upon their fine family.

Like all the characters, this movie is trash. Or in the tired tropey vernacular of the day, "Tell me you hate this movie without telling me you hate this movie."

God, I hate that popular play on words. But I hated this movie even more.

I give it two bloody thumbs down.